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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 305
🕑 Added 2025-12-13 14:10:18 +0000 UTCChapter 305: The Third Task Begins! What Do You Mean, “Tree Guardians”?
Little Hangleton, Riddle House.
The only light in the gloomy hall came from the hearth, where a weak orange flame crackled, pushing back a little of the chill seeping in from outside.
[You failed… Barty.]
The rasping voice of a dying old man sounded from the armchair.
Voldemort slowly turned his head and, through his blurred vision, looked down at the man kneeling on the floor.
Deep folds creased with disgust.
[You threw away such a perfect chance… useless.]
"I am sorry, my Lord," Barty Jr whispered. "It was my mistake."
He prostrated himself, forehead pressed to the floor.
His face could not be seen.
If Voldemort’s arrogance had not dulled his senses, he might have noticed something strange.
The Barty who had always been so fanatically loyal, who treated him like a father, should have been crawling closer in agony, begging for another chance.
Not kneeling several paces away and staying there.
But Voldemort only turned his eyes aside in irritation.
He had no desire to add to his own annoyance.
He looked instead to the figure leaning by the desk.
A tall form wrapped in black robes and a pure white mask, giving off an air of mystery.
This was the man who had erupted into the wizarding world from nowhere.
Mr Lamp.
My greatest trump card, Voldemort thought.
If only Mr Lamp were truly my subordinate.
Measured against him, Barty became even harder to look at.
A failure who did not even measure up to half of Mr Lamp’s ability.
He wheezed for a while, breathing like a leaf in a gale, then spoke again.
[The third task is our last chance.]
[Forget Ethan Vincent. All we need to do is get Harry Potter.]
So long as he did not provoke that unnerving boy, perhaps Ethan would not interfere.
"I can turn the cup into a Portkey," Mr Lamp said idly, playing with his wand. "The instant it is touched, it will bring them to your father’s grave."
"Do try not to disappoint me this time."
His wand stopped.
Its tip pointed straight at Voldemort.
The threat in the air was invisible and unmistakable.
[…Of course.]
Voldemort’s heart jumped.
His tone became even more respectful.
[Once I return, we will spread darkness and fear across the world together. We will slaughter Muggles and filthy Mudbloods and bring everyone under our rule.]
[You will drink your fill of killing, and bathe in blood to the sound of screams.]
His eyes opened a little wider.
He stared at Mr Lamp with nothing but admiration.
No doubt about it.
Mr Lamp was utterly insane.
Voldemort could smell the darkness seeping from deep inside him.
The desire to stand laughing at the centre of a burning world.
Someone like that could not have any other ambitions.
He had met too many people not to trust his own judgement.
Of course, he was not completely reckless.
He had not shared the exact steps of the resurrection ritual with Mr Lamp.
…Damn it.
If he had even one more useful follower, he would not be in such a weak position.
He thought of last term, and of the pathetic Wormtail Ethan had killed, and rage boiled up again.
[Ethan Vincent… when I return, I will tear you into a thousand pieces.]
The vow was like a ghost’s shriek, thick with hatred.
It could freeze bone.
Mr Lamp’s gloved hand paused.
Then his voice brightened, each word clear and distinct.
"I will be watching with great interest."
Perfect timing.
His Crucible of Souls ritual was nearly ready.
[…]
Voldemort hesitated, but did not think too deeply.
He took it simply as Mr Lamp’s eagerness for the coming slaughter.
There was a soft hiss.
The real Ethan, behind the mask, felt something cold and slick slide over the top of his foot.
He glanced down.
Nagini’s cold, bloodthirsty eyes met his.
Perhaps sensing his excitement, the snake’s tail gave his leg a light thump.
At the same time, at Hogwarts—
In the Durmstrang dormitory, Viktor Krum was polishing his wand with the same care he used on his broom.
"Ethan Vincent," he muttered. "I will win this task."
"And then I will defeat you."
His gaze burned.
In the Hufflepuff common room—
"Magic is not just trading spells with wands," Cedric Diggory said softly.
"Transfiguration, enchanted items, Potions… even blades and spears."
He looked at his wand, closed his eyes and drew a long breath, pulling his magic into focus.
Light slowly rose around it.
The wind from the spell stirred his hair.
When the glow settled, Cedric opened his eyes and looked down at what he had made, joy flashing across his face.
Viktor Krum, this time I will not lose.
I am Hufflepuff’s champion.
In the Gryffindor common room—
"Yes! I win! Wahoo!"
Fred Weasley punched the air and jumped nearly three feet in front of his twin.
"Damn it, I refuse to accept this. Take this!" George yelled, tackling him.
Laughter filled the room as a game of rock‑paper‑scissors turned into a wrestling match.
Off to the side, Harry watched them with a dopey grin.
He glanced back at the wizard chessboard just in time to hear a cold voice at his fingertips.
"Checkmate."
With a crack, his king was swatted across the board by the opposing queen’s chair.
"Oh. I lost again," Harry groaned.
"Mate, that was painful to watch," Ron said, patting his shoulder.
Harry could only agree.
He looked at the black-and-white squares opposite him.
The row of blue‑lit, murderous wizard chess pieces staring him down felt less like a set of chessmen and more like a towering wall of iron.
Ethan had given it to him for his birthday, a self‑moving wizard chess set.
At first, Harry had thought Ethan must have mixed their gifts up.
Ron was the chess player.
But Ron had been given an enchanted adventure storybook instead, complete with beautiful little figurines, and it had become the new craze in Gryffindor.
There was no way Ron was trading.
Then Hermione had pointed out the obvious.
"This might be a hint for the next task," she had said. "Harry, you have to beat those pieces."
The nightmare had begun.
"I must have played a hundred times," Harry complained. "I dream about checkmates now."
"You have improved loads," Ron said. "Remember what I keep telling you. Watch how they move. Try to predict what they will do."
"One day you will be the one saying 'checkmate.'"
Seeing Harry’s sulk, Hermione joined in. "Exactly. Ethan must have had a reason for choosing this. Do not give up."
What she did not say was that she had been on edge for weeks.
Rita’s attack kept dragging her thoughts back to the World Cup.
Storm clouds were gathering.
If Voldemort and Mr Lamp meant to strike, their last, best chance would be during the third task.
She kept her worries to herself.
She could not bring herself to break the cheerful mood.
She could only trust Ethan.
And follow the threads he had left.
Harry sighed again.
He picked up the stunned chess pieces and reset the board for what felt like the thousandth time.
Predict the enemy’s moves…
Winter turned to spring.
The Whomping Willow shuddered and shook the last of the melting snow from its branches.
The Black Lake thawed.
The giant squid’s tentacles curled above the surface, playing with the little squid Ethan had given it.
Time rushed on.
The final task of the Triwizard Tournament loomed.
In the Room of Requirement—
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Bursts of gold flared in the dim, like little suns blinking in and out.
With every ringing blow of the heavy hammer, sparks flew.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
At last the silver‑white hammer rose high and came down with all its might.
Clang.
Light exploded.
It steadied, burning bright through the chamber and glinting off the carved basilisk bodies twining around the stone pillars.
The glow ran across their eyes, making them seem almost alive.
"Done," Ethan murmured.
He wiped sweat from his brow and looked down past the hammer at the mirror in his hands, whole and dazzling at last.
The smooth surface reflected his damp, flushed face back at him.
[Congratulations. You have reforged the Wayward Mirror.]
[Wayward Mirror upgraded.]
[The mirror can now draw reflected targets into a reflected version of reality.]
[Combined with powerful Confundus magic, this space will allow you to cloud others’ senses with ease.]
"Perfect."
Ethan’s smile curled, and the man in the mirror smiled with him.
Using rare materials sourced by the Ministry and the power of the Lamp’s light, layered with spellwork, he had repaired a formidable artifact.
"Voldemort," he said softly, "this will be your ceremonial hall."
There would be a ritual, of course.
Just not the one Voldemort had in mind.
He put the mirror away and flicked his hand.
Two new cards appeared between his fingers.
Both had been prepared especially for the third task.
And—
He lifted his palm toward the air, making an inviting gesture.
The space in front of him rippled, tiny waves like a dragonfly’s touch spreading out.
From them emerged an enormous marble finger.
One finger was as big as Ethan himself.
It moved slowly, astonishingly gentle for something so massive.
Ethan took the fingertip lightly and smiled.
"I will give you a true history, Ariana," he said.
"I will show you what real champions look like."
Ariana Dumbledore, tormented into an Obscurus by two Muggle boys in her childhood, had never been someone who "ought to disappear."
The sculpture that now held her soul said nothing.
The hand simply drew back again.
It left a vast, dense magic hanging in the air of the chamber.
A third‑tier violet epic.
"Now everything is ready," Ethan whispered.
His blue eyes seemed to look through the dark ceiling, far beyond the chamber.
"Voldemort is only the appetiser. It is time to challenge fate itself."
Faintly, he could feel the weight of gazes bearing down from above, as if something great and distant were saying:
"An ant on the ground dares to defy destiny?"
"Heh."
Ethan laughed under his breath.
He raised his wand, holding it upright before him like a knight’s sword.
Cold light flashed in his eyes.
His lips pulled into a grin.
His handsome, mild features twisted with sheer, wild excitement.
"World," he said softly, "bear witness."
Trumpets blared.
Their cheerful notes vanished under the roar of the crowd.
In front of the arc of stands stretched a maze so vast the far end could not be seen.
Walls of knotted thorn and bramble, heavy with deep red roses, formed its paths.
Students from all three schools were on their feet, screaming and waving banners for their champions in the final task.
Hogwarts had sent Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, and Fred Weasley, who had won the deciding game of rock‑paper‑scissors.
"Diggory! Diggory! Diggory!"
The Hufflepuffs had even brought drums, beating them in time with their chant.
They were more excited and proud than any of the other three Houses.
This was the brightest moment Hufflepuff had seen in a hundred years.
Even the now‑famous Magizoologist Newt Scamander had earned expulsion for his "dangerous creatures" and left with no honours.
In the roar of applause, Mr Diggory looked more worked up than his son.
He seized Cedric’s arm and pumped it in the air until Cedric, crimson with embarrassment, wriggled free.
"Sonorus."
Dumbledore raised his wand.
His amplified voice rolled out over the stands, quieting the din.
"He looks so serious," Hermione whispered.
She clasped her hands tight in front of her as if in prayer.
She glanced around, frowning. "And where is Ethan?"
"This is the final task of the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore announced.
"The overall rankings will be decided by the total scores from all three tasks."
"In this task, our champions must make their way through the maze. There is only one cup."
"Whichever champion reaches it and touches it first ends the task."
"Good luck, Harry," Ron muttered under his breath. "Do not let Durmstrang pass us. Oh, and one Lava Chocolate Blast, please."
"As with the previous events," Dumbledore went on, "anyone who manages to defeat the final monster has the option to challenge one of the organisers, Ethan Vincent."
"Mr Vincent is already waiting for you at the centre of the maze."
Krum’s pupils shrank.
Battle lust burned in his eyes.
Dumbledore paused.
Under dozens of eager eyes, which had no idea what was coming, he drew a deep breath and bellowed, "I hereby declare the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament—"
"Beg—"
Bang.
The firework went off before he could finish, bursting into a spray of colour overhead.
Filch, who had lit it, froze and spread his hands helplessly.
On the Slytherin stands, Draco Malfoy snorted. “Trust a Squib to set it off too soon.”
The students around him laughed.
Draco turned back toward the maze, remembering the letter from his father.
Hidden between the lines had been a mention of the Dark Mark burning.
His lips pressed into a hard line as he stared at the hedge‑walls.
Ethan, you had better win.
At the entrance to the maze—
"Go on, lad! Good luck! Be careful!"
Cedric stood at the mouth of the path and looked back as the rose‑covered thorns began to close, hiding his father’s waving figure from view.
Until it vanished completely.
"Do not worry, Father," Cedric said quietly. "I will bring the cup back. You will be proud."
He knew his father wanted nothing more than to see him outshine Ethan.
To be the brightest one of all.
"Even if I cannot reach that height, I have to chase it."
First, he had to win the task.
He turned and strode into the shadowed corridor of thorns.
At the heart of the maze, in a wide, open space, a faint greenish light filtered through the clouds.
It fell over ranks of gleaming armour and long spears.
Clack.
Metal rasped.
The rows of figures standing as straight and disciplined as any regiment of soldiers were—
Playing cards.
Each one thick as a shield, each one armoured, each one bearing the same suit.
Hearts.
Shlurrrp.
A shadow dropped from above, soaring over the heads of the card‑soldiers.
It hit the ground with a crash like a falling meteor.
Boom.
Dust billowed.
The shockwave bowled entire ranks of cards off their feet.
A heavy knight stood where it had landed.
It was sheathed head to toe in black plate, shield in one hand, a massive glaive in the other.
A walking fortress.
Its presence pressed down like a physical weight.
A third‑tier golden legendary painting.
Darksoul Warden.
Its helmet was pure blackness, hiding anything that might be inside.
Ethan, hood pulled low, stood behind the army.
His hand slipped from the wide sleeve of his cloak to point the wand toward the direction the champions would come from.
In the shadow of the hood, he smiled, gentle and bright.
"Go," he said. "Protect our princess."
"Turn every intruder into fertiliser for our rose‑garden maze."
